La Petite Mort
by bikelock28
Summary: That's what they call it in French. Literally translates as the little death.


La Petite Mort

 _Say nighty-night and kiss me  
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me.  
While I'm alone, blue as can be,  
Dream a little dream of me._

 _Stars fading but I linger on, dear,_  
 _Still craving your kiss._  
 _I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear,_  
 _Just saying this..._

He doesn't suppose that he's particularly good at making love to her. He's a vain man but he's not deluded. River's so confident and sensual, whereas he gets nervous and clumsy. He's never sure what to do with his arms and he feels like he's constantly kicking her. Besides, it's hardly as if one can _practise_ this, is it? He just has to hold on, hope for the best, and fumble around hoping that he's going to find the right places to touch her.

La Petite Morte. That's what they call it in French. Literally translates as the little death. He always thinks about that when she does. He knows that that's terrible, morbid, bizarre- but he can't help it. Minds wander, and his mind an experienced nomad. She arches her back, groans and breath jolts out of her. How can he help but think of the day that's been and that's coming when she doesn't breathe back in again? He didn't see her die- he was there obviously, handcuffed to the pipe, but when the interface activated with her plugged in there was too much light and noise and he instinctively reeled away, shieling his face with his arm. He isn't sure if he wishes that he had seen it, seen her arch and groan and breath leave her lungs. She'd watched him die, after all. Twice.

Sometimes when she comes she screws her eyes shut and he can't help but think about the time she doesn't open them again. Other times she keeps her eyes open, locked on his. Smiling, shining, loving, while she dies her little death. She's beautiful and it's wrong, so horribly, perversely wrong that he wants to push her away and scrub his skin with his nails to get the feeling of her off him. How can he not when she's kissing him, touching him, loving him when everybody knows that if you get to close to him you get burnt, and the grime of the fire streaks through your life? How can he look into her eyes and see the joy in them when he's the cause of so much of her suffering? How can he watch her face so full of life when he's wriggled himself out of her handcuffs to free her lifeless corpse from the chair it lay slumped in? He feels disgusting, cruel, predatory in the sickest way, to sleep with a woman who one day will never wake up thanks to him.

And he can't tell her. Because of rules, because of spoilers and most of all because he knows that she wants him this way and he doesn't want to disappoint her. He's given her so much suffering, the least he can do it give her his body when she wants it. He'll concede that yes, he enjoys sex too- not to the extent that most people he's met do, but he likes it, he enjoys the strange new River-inspired sensations in his mind and body. He loves her but that's beside the point- the guilt that comes during the arch-groan-breath moment makes his spine shiver. Once or twice the idea of it has been too much to bear and he's rejected her advances, pretended some piece of equipment needs fixing and wandered off to the TARDIS workshop. River usually pouts but accepts it. But most of the time he says yes, he kisses her, he touches her, she kisses him back, heat rises between them, his head is full of her flesh, her hair, her throat, his mouth on his skin, her hair in his face. And then she'll die a little death and he'll be yanked out on the pleasure and into the cold, hard knowledge that he has seen this woman die and can never tell her. Sometimes afterwards she holds him close (River Song is not a woman who snuggles or cuddles) to skim her mouth over his jaw and shoulders, or have a murmured conversation. It takes every ounce of his self control not to flinch at her touch or close his ears to her whispered nothings. He wants to shout at her to run for her life away from him. That's what he should do to people he cares about- chase them away before they get hurt. He should suffer being lonely if it means that they are safe. What kind of selfish braggart whisks innocent humans away into danger just because he's lonely and bored and wants to show off? River's different to most of his companions, but not enough to justify him not sending her away.

Sometimes she wants it quick and hurried, standing up or bent over a desk. That's always easier to cope with because he doesn't have to look into her eyes. He sees less of the little death and only has the sound ringing in his ears, not the look in her eyes jammed in his mind. He worries too, that one day she'll notice the split-second look of horror and disgust which he's sure must flash across his own eyes during her petite morte. River's unpredictable at the best of times and he hasn't a clue how she'd react to that. She'd probably be angry at him for not telling her before, but even if he wanted to (he doesn't, he won't, he can't), how would he find the words? Perhaps she'd be embarrassed, or worse, confused, and he doesn't think that "Spoilers" would be a good enough explanation. Maybe she'd work out why it repulses him so. He isn't sure what she'd do then- shout, cry, needle him for answers? Like he said, she's unpredictable. The only certainty is him, messing up her life again and again until it kills her. He remembers the baby in the cot on Demon's Run, and the corpse on the chair in the Library. Screwing her up from beginning to end.

A little death in the middle of making love. It's poetic but it's cruel. Or perhaps it's cruel because it's poetic. Cruel so it's poetic. All of those things. She tugs his hips against her, runs her hands through his hair, rubs her face against his, nips his earlobes, traces his ribcage, tangles their tongues and lips. Sometimes he wonders if she can taste the bile in his kisses.


End file.
